Manchild

Thoughts flutter in
through rusty windows of a mind
and laugh at the birth of a man
blood waxes black in mourning
for a boy who died
before he became a man

What is this solace
we milk from the breasts of depression
can we go drunk with solitude,
can it satisfy?

You say the rose is self-centered
surrounding itself with thorns
but it won’t need to be so
if it blossomed in the company of other flowers
i prick you
i prick myself too
i bleed,
my petals are juicy with blood.

I died the day time stopped
a child,
and became a man when my source wilted
so who I’m i?
my dreams and fantasies?
they flutter in, through the windows of my mind
teasing me, laughing
at the death of a child
at the birth of a man.

I am a rose
bleeding is all I know
i am a child who forgot how to laugh
and so I am a man.

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